


Untitled

by turntechGodtier



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-03
Updated: 2011-12-03
Packaged: 2017-10-26 20:35:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/287571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turntechGodtier/pseuds/turntechGodtier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He comes to you, staring straight into your soul, and for some reason, you're not sure if you want to stop him from seeing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled

He comes to you on the remains of a battlefield. Bodies of trolls from both sides litter the ground, the earth soaked in a rainbow of blood, not a little of which is your own. You'd sat down a moment, intent on resting your weary, wounded body, the cuts and bruises on you aching more than they had any real right to. You have no idea how long you've been sitting there when he approaches you.

  
You recognise him right away. His painted face is unmistakeable, the gaunt mask of a being who has seen and dealth in death and nightmares for longer than is strictly healthy for one's mental health. You remember hearing once that the paintings have meaning, like the glyphs in the books that continue to elude you. You wish you could read this one, your rusty eyes locked on his surprisingly intense ones, violet in the light of the second moon. He is oddly beautiful you think, dismissing it as quickly as it came, attributing the ridiculous notion to bloodloss and the goose-egg that's been throbbing on the crown of your head for the last half-hour.

  
To your surprise, he sits as well, clubs drawn, but placed to one side as he continues to look at you. You get the unshakeable feeling that he's staring into your soul, and remember with a barely-suppressed shudder that he probably is. He is the Grand Highblood, after all, the most powerful in his caste, and right now, he is more than a match for you. But still he does nothing, long horns curling gracefully away from his mass of hair (or is that some headpiece? It's impossible for you to tell in the darkness). You decide they're like red ribbons, left too long in the harsh sunlight, bleached out where they'd been exposed to the world.

  
You have no idea how long you sit there, staring at each other as you both barely dare to blink for fear the other will attack.

  
You both know that you've lost this battle. Your revolution, walking the same path as the Signless before you, has failed. It will be a miracle if you survive your injuries, or so you tell yourself melodramatically. You know that in reality, you could have, and should have, perished before seeing the last of your men captured, culled on the spot for daring to house such heretical ideals as equality, peace, all trolls on equal level with one another.

  
"You think quite loudly."

  
You jump violently when he speaks. His voice is smooth as silk, you're surprised to learn, soft as velvet as the breeze rustles his hair. Eyes narrowed in suspicion, you shift, wincing a little.

  
"I don't quite understand your meaning."

  
Your response is just as quiet, almost challenging in its tone. It's true; you have no ability yourself to hear the thoughts of others, and the concept of thoughts having volume baffles you a little. He chuckles, a sound that sends a chill through your body, and you tell yourself that it's not fear your feeling (but if it isn't fear, then what could it be?).

  
"Equality. The removal of castes. All of us, from the highest of finned ones to the lowest of rustbloods."

  
Again, the chill runs down your spine. You're still not sure what's causing it.  


"It's not such a terrible idea, is it."  


It's a statement, not a question.  


"It is foolish. And yet..."  


As he leans back, hair nearly touching the ground behind him, he laughs again, deep and amused and just barely outside the realm of condescending. You can't decide if the laugh will haunt your nightmares, or sleep in the deepest of your most shameful dreams. He is the Grand Highblood, but you will not deny that his voice is music to your sensitive ears.  


"And yet what?"  


You know that this conversation will likely end with you dead. Quite a bit of the spilt blood is on his hands as you speak, and he is utterly unashamed of that fact. It flakes off his long claws, stains the metal of his clubs with the rest of the thousand or more of your kind he has slain.  


"Someday, Summoner. It will happen. It will not be what you wish. But it will come to pass."  


You're not sure how he knows your Title. Frowning, you shake your head, your great horns tugged along with the breeze.  


"Why are you here?"  


He laughs a third time, head tilted to one side in a gesture that vaguely reminds you of the child trolls you'd fought in the caverns after your hatching. This time, you can feel goosebumps on your skin, your heart beating just a little faster as you watch him for his answer. You're almost afraid of what it will end up being.  


"Because, Summoner, not all interactions are based on hatred."  


The answer is simple, infuriatingly so, as he laughs again, pushing himself to his feet. Much to your surprise, he turns, starting to walk away as you contemplate his answer. Hatred, or pity, or possibly for once, mutual respect. The idea baffles you as he continues walking, silent as he skirts the bodies of those he had so recently slain. Staring at him, your eyes are still narrowed, suspicious and unsure.  


"I don't understand."  


That laugh, you decide, is one you will remember until the end of your days, in ways both fearful and scandalous. It's low, resonating in your chest even from the distance he's at from you. To your shame, a flush rises in your cheeks; it's an angry one, but he does not see it as such, a smirk playing across his carefully painted lips. He thinks you a fool, you decide, wishing desperately for his gift to read the thoughts and dreams of those below him.  


"I did not expect you to understand. Not this time, Summoner."  


It's a silent threat, a promise on his part to return again, and possibly paint rust-orange along his walls. As he vanishes into the mist, the very first grey tinges of dawn on the horizon, you decide to start sleeping with one eye open.


End file.
